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date: 21 March 2019

Emily Dickinson 1830–86 American poet

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs.

‘After great pain, a formal feeling comes’ (1862)

Because I could not stop for Death—He kindly stopped for me—The Carriage held but just Ourselves—And Immortality.

‘Because I could not stop for Death’ (1863)

Since then—'tis Centuries—and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses HeadsWere toward Eternity.

‘Because I could not stop for Death’ (1863)

There is no Frigate like a BookTo take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a PageOf prancing Poetry.

‘A Book (2)’ (1873)

The Bustle in a HouseThe Morning after DeathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon Earth—

The Sweeping up the HeartAnd putting Love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil Eternity.

‘The Bustle in a House’ (1866)

Forever—is composed of nows.

‘Forever—is composed of nows’ (c. 1863)

Hope is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—And sings the tune without the words—and never stops—at all—

‘Hope is the thing with feathers’ (c. 1861)

There interposed a Fly—

With Blue—uncertain stumbling Buzz—Between the light—and me—And then the Windows failed—and thenI could not see to see.

‘I heard a Fly buzz—when I died’ (1862)

Love is anterior to life,Posterior to death,Initial of creation, andThe exponent of breath.

‘Love is anterior to life’

Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.

‘My life closed twice before its close’

The Soul selects her own Society—Then—shuts the Door—To her divine Majority—Present no more.

‘The Soul selects her own Society’ (1862)

Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.

‘Success is counted sweetest’ (1859)

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.

‘Tell all the Truth but tell it slant’ (c. 1868)

There's a certain Slant of light,Winter Afternoons—That oppresses like the HeftOf Cathedral Tunes—

‘There's a certain Slant of light’ (1861)

They shut me up in prose—As when a little girlThey put me in the closet—Because they liked me ‘still’.

‘They shut me up in prose’ (1862)

This is my letter to the worldThat never wrote to me.

‘This is my letter to the world’ (1862)

If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way.

letter to T. W. Higginson, 16 August 1870

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

letter to T. W. Higginson, 17 August 1870

Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A Circus passed the house—still I feel the red in my mind though the drums are out. The Lawn is full of south and the odours tangle, and I hear to-day for the first time the river in the tree.

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